A Song for Joey (13 page)

We three sat together in their gloomy living room, with its dark furniture and heavy
drapes. I sipped tea with them, hypnotised by the sonorous ticking of a gigantic
grandfather clock, while we discussed my options, which were, obviously, seriously
limited.

The vicar was a kind man, about fifty years old, already fast balding, with that leaden
face so common among the clergy when they have to help parishioners through difficult
times. "My advice, Belinda," he intoned, rather like his clock, "is to save your money until
you can afford what you want. I don't like the idea of you getting into difficulties just to
pay for a grave."

I shook my head. "No," I said levelly, "Joey is not going into a common grave. Even
though I can't afford a stone for him, yet, I have enough to pay for a plot for a year, and I
will get him a memorial with his name and everything, somehow." I blinked back the
tears that were pushing at the corners of my eyes; tears for Joey and tears of frustration.

"We understand dear," said Mrs Potter, kneeling beside me and putting her arm round
my shoulders. I couldn't help myself, suddenly I was sobbing into her bosom, my anger
and self-pity, held back for so long, pouring out at last. She held me close, stroking my
hair and murmuring gentle, meaningless sounds.

Eventually, I lifted my head. "I miss my Gran so much, she would have sorted
everything out for me."
"Perhaps she would. But it seems to me," she smiled, "that you are doing very well by
yourself. You have been through a tough time, and pulled through. I admire you,
Belinda."
I was amazed. Why should a woman - mature, comfortable, successful in her way admire me? I was still a kid, no matter how hard I pretended otherwise; my life was a
mess, I was worth twenty two pounds fifteen shillings. But when I looked into her eyes, I
could see she was sincere. "Why?" I croaked.
"Because you are resilient. What happened just now was the first time you have let your
emotions out, wasn't it? When life knocks you sideways, you fight back. I think you will
go a long way, Belinda Bellini."
Her words were so like Joey's that they took my breath away. "Joey said that, too," I
whispered.
"Then he was a very astute young man, and lucky to have you as his friend." She smiled
again. "I will reserve a plot for him. The funeral will be next Monday, at ten o'clock, will
you come?"
"Oh yes, please."
"Ok, it's all settled, then. Now I'm sorry, but we have to be getting ready to go out."
I left with four pounds five shillings in my pocket, but a new plan for the future.

"Nice of you to turn up for rehearsal, Belinda. Shame you couldn't make it last night.
After all, it was the most important gig we've ever done."
Bruce's face was twisted into an angry sneer, eyes screwed into little black slits, mouth
pulled apart in a grim parody of a smile. The rest of the band lounged or sat behind him,
equally hostile.
"I'm sorry," I mumbled, cut by their resentment. "My best friend was dying, I had to be
with him."
He raised his arms, outstretched at each side palms spread. "And what about us?" he
whined, looking back to the others. "We don't count, I take it? You knew this was
possibly our make-or-break moment, and you couldn't leave your chum for a couple of
hours to support us. Well thanks very much. Maybe next time we'll have a standby, just in
case you can't make it again.”
He stopped, and fixed me with a glare. “Actually, there won't be a next time. No thanks
to you, we landed a deal, so it seems we can manage perfectly well without you, after all.
Goodbye Belinda, close the door behind you." I saw the others smirking, and Alan sidled
up beside Bruce to enjoy the moment.
"Just like that? No thanks for all the work I put in that got you that gig," I shouted, angry
with them, angry with myself for the tears that were stinging my eyes.
"Belinda, we were carrying you. We gave you a start, took a chance on taking in an
unknown kid. We trained you, built you up." Now his eyes were bulging, and he spat out
the words like bullets from a gun. "Now you think we owe you something? Wrong, kid,
wrong in a big way!"
"One time!" I screeched. "That's all. Just once I had to miss a gig, and that was to be
with someone special when they died. But that doesn't count with you, does it? Don't you
care about anyone except yourself?"
"Success is everything," he retorted. "If we are to make it big, we have to be totally
dedicated, ruthless, single-minded. There's no room for sentimentality or weakness in
show business.
"Yeah," Alan chipped in from behind with a sneer.
"Shut up, Alan!" I snapped. "I'm talking to the engineer, not his oily rag."
I had heard Joey say something like that once. It seemed to be the perfect response, and I
felt great satisfaction in its effect; it was wonderful to see Alan's face turn purple with
rage, and he stepped forward with his fists clenched.
Bruce stopped him with an outstretched arm, without taking his eyes off me. "Leave
now, Belinda, before you cause any more trouble," he hissed.
"Oh, nothing could make me stay," I shouted. "If you think that's what it takes, if that's
what ambition does to you, I don't want to be part of your dream. Friends are special, and
if my friends need me I will always be there for them!"
I turned and stamped to the door, turning partway to throw a parting line: "Don't fool
yourselves. If you are successful, you will never enjoy it, because you will be too busy
screwing people, or waiting for them to screw you!"
Blood was throbbing in my head as I pushed through the door into the evening sunshine.
Once out of their sight, the tears poured down my face as I walked away. Now I really
was in trouble - no money, no income, no friends, and by the end of next week I would be
homeless again - I needed an angel to save me, but my little angel was dead.

The day of the funeral dawned as bright and clear as a spring morning. After the service
at St Johns, and the burial in the cemetery near the ruins of St Nicholas Church - flattened
by German bombs in the war - I stood at the graveside, with the sun gleaming happily
through the branches of the trees dotted around the graveyard, highlighting the beautiful
copper and gold leaves that were gently fluttering down, as though it was not the saddest
day the world had ever known. I had expected it to be a sombre day, mournful and
melancholy, but clearly I was not in charge of weather arrangements.

There were just four of us at the graveside: little Charley, who I had met on my first day
with Joey, the vicar, his wife and me. On the days leading to the funeral, I had called
around to see all the drop-outs in the town, telling them what had happened to our friend,
and asking them to come to the funeral. Several had said they would be at the church, but
in the end it was just Charley and me.

Mr Potter reached the end of his liturgy, and we stood in silence, each with our own
thoughts. I watched a newsreel of my memories of Joey - Joey laughing, Joey splashing
naked in the sea at midnight, Joey Serious, Joey coughing up blood.

With my last two pounds I had bought a simple wooden cross for the grave, with Joey's
name and the date of his death etched on it.
"I promise, my dear friend, that I will not rest until I can give you a proper gravestone
and a real funeral," I said quietly.
I wanted it to be raining, to match my tears, not warm and sunny. Instead, I felt the
warmth of the sun reaching inside me, filling me, touching my heart. I felt a hand taking
mine.
With a thrill I heard Joey's voice: "
Crying won't help, Bell. Remember what I told you -
Life comes in two bits: yesterday ... and all the rest. Life may deal you a handful of shit you can't change that - but you can change how you let the shit affect you
."
He was right. I had to overcome my sadness, be grateful for the good things, and make
my own way. Thanks to him, I could now take care of myself. It was time to move on.
The future was mine.

The next day, I started hawking myself around the theatres in Great Yarmouth - asking
for work as a dancer or in the chorus - without any success. It was not a good time of year.
The summer season was over, and entertainers were being laid off, not taken on. Some of
the managers wrote down my name and asked for my address - I knew they wouldn't be in
touch.

Then my luck changed. As I was leaving The Globe, my chin on my chest, a man
detached himself from a wall and stepped into my path.
"I heard you asking about work," he said. "What can you do?" He was tall, about six
feet, I guessed, and in his twenties, slim, good looking, casually dressed in jeans and a
leather motor-cycle jacket. He was smoking a cigarette, relaxed, almost arrogant.
"Sing, dance, anything," I said, shrugging, trying to sound cocky. I studied him
carefully, unsure of his motives. He seemed nice enough, though, with a pleasant smile.
"You got a theatre or something?"
"Nah! But I know them all. I'm, like, an agent; I can get you work, if you're any good.
What's your name?"
"Belinda Bellini." Joey had always said it was a good name, with a professional sound
to it. He said I would be a star one day; I hoped I could justify his faith in me. "What's
yours?" (Look confident, nonchalant, Belinda, as though you've seen it all, done it all.)
"Gary Burroughs." He looked me up and down, and seemed to be satisfied with what he
saw. "Have you done any stage work?"
"Loads," I exagerated. Well, I had performed regularly with the Beacons.
"Ok, good, cool. Will you do an audition, if I fix one up?"
Too right I would! But I mustn't appear too eager, too needy. "Yeah, if you want. What
can you get me?"
He laughed."Let's see if you can do the business, first. How can I contact you? Are you
on the phone?"
"I don't stay in one place long enough to get a phone. I'm dossing with some friends, till
I get proper digs." I was amazed how easily the lies were coming. "Where's your office?"
"Don't worry about that right now," he replied. "Meet me outside the Regent, tomorrow
at twelve o'clock, I'll see what I can fix up. Ok?"
"Sure, I'll be there." I sauntered off, still trying to act cool, but my heart was singing. I
had my first break.

The next day, I bathed and changed into my only nice clothes, bought while I was
earning money with the band. They were just an ordinary dress and shoes, not really stage
wear, but they were all I had. They were still unworn, with the creases still in, and I hoped
they would fall out. I also used a little of my precious make-up and perfume.

I studied myself in the mirror, seriously assessing my appearance for the first time since
I was six years old.
For the first ten years of my life, I had been content to be a child, playing at life; but that
had been when I felt secure and loved. It seemed like a lifetime ago, so much had
happened in the last few years. Now I was truly alone, surviving by my own resources. It
was time to grow up.
And the girl in the mirror was not that child; here were the makings of a woman. My
figure had started to fill out: I had good legs and a nice bust, emphasised by the narrow
waist that six months of living rough had given me; and my hair - like coal, black and
gleaming - had grown to a good length and settled seductively on my shoulders. I smiled
at myself, and liked what I saw. I was ready to take on the world. Joey had taught me that
I could do it, encouraged me and shown me the way; now I had to make it work, and I
was determined to succeed.
Gary was late. The clock above the entrance to the Regent had reached twenty past
twelve, and I was about to leave, when he arrived.
"Ah good, you're here." He didn't apologise, seemed unaware that he had kept me
waiting. That made me angry.
"You're late!" I hissed petulantly.
"Yeah, couldn't help it. You ready to perform, then?" He seemed unconcerned. Arrogant
pig!
Nevertheless, I followed him inside, where he greeted the manager as though they were
old friends, then led me backstage. I remembered it all from my visits with Ted Bailey,
my comedian friend from those innocent days, and the memories helped to boost my
confidence.
"What are you going to sing?" Gary asked.
"Sweet Nothin's," I replied. It was a song recorded by Brenda Lee, a young American
singer whom I greatly admired. She had succeeded in a rock music industry dominated by
men, Little Richard, Buddy Holly, Gerry Lee Lewis and, of course, Elvis Presley. She
could make her voice wonderfully raucous when she wanted to, though she was capable
of delivering a gentle Country song too.
He raised an eyebrow, either surprised at my choice or impressed at my nerve, I couldn't
tell. Maybe he didn't know the record, or maybe he hated it. He left me on stage,
descended the steps and sat in a seat in the front row.
I stood alone on a stage for the first time, with no microphone and no backing group,
and the strangest thing happened: all my nerves disappeared. I knew I should be there, it
was my destiny, I could feel Joey with me, urging me on.
I launched into the song, belting out the words in the way that Brenda Lee did in the
record. It was as though the world no longer existed. I was so immersed in the music that
I didn't realise I had reached the last word until I heard my voice echoing around the walls
and roof, and heard a pattering of applause that sprang up from the back of the theatre,
where a small bunch of people had gathered.
Burroughs seemed unimpressed. He stayed in his seat, his arms folded across his chest,
a cigarette smouldering between his fingers. "Do another one," he said, dispassionately.
I glared at him; what was wrong with the man? Ok, if that's what he wanted ...
By way of contrast, I decided to sing a ballad, "You Always Hurt The One You Love,"
that I had heard performed by Connie Francis, but which I would give my own
interpretation. I was nervous about throwing away the excitement of my first song, but I
wanted to show him there was more to me than shouting.
Once again, as soon as I began to sing, I was transported into another universe; the
theatre faded from my consciousness and I lived only for that song. When I finished it, I
was startled by loud applause and cheering. I opened my eyes to the sight of almost a
hundred people sitting and standing around the auditorium.
I felt a big smile take over my face. I gave a little curtsey, then looked back at Gary;
surely he must have liked it, everyone else had.
But he still sat there, expressionless. "Yeah, that'll do for now. Meet me back here
tomorrow and I'll let you know if I can make anything of you."
Two months later, and another small crowd applauded enthusiastically. Their
appreciation was welcome, but I had hoped for better things by then. Gary had lent me the
money to buy an acoustic guitar, and I had learnt to play it - well, to strum a few chords to
accompany myself, with the help of Bert Weedon's 'Play in a Day' book - and now I was
singing to pay him back.
I smiled and thanked the regulars, of course, then left the tiny stage and took my place
behind the bar for my only real job, serving drinks. Two months on, and I was still in
Great Yarmouth; Gary had so far not managed to get me into any of the theatres, so I was
reduced to making a small living singing in pubs, mostly his pub.
He owned the Bricklayers Arms, a small pub in Nelson Road, out of the town centre,
but only a short walk from the seafront, and I had moved in with him. We lived in the flat
above it. It seemed a fair deal for me; I contributed to our living expenses by working
behind the bar, with a little to spare for myself - I saved what I could in my Post Office
account.
Since I started performing there, trade had improved noticeably, with a large number of
people attending just to hear me sing. Instead of being pleased, however, Gary seemed to
resent my success, and took to spending all his time on the customer's side of the bar,
making me work harder.
Every night, the routine was the same: while I served drinks to the punters, Gary
socialised with them, matching their consumption of beer and spirits.
Then, when the clock reached ten twenty-five, I would call 'time', allowing the serious
drinkers to rush to the bar to buy their last pints. Licensing laws at that time forbade the
sale of alcohol after ten thirty, but most nights the drinking went on in the Bricklayers
until after midnight; Gary simply gave the drinks away, while striving doggedly to attain a
state of insufferable, staggering drunkenness himself.
I became accustomed to leaving him to his puerile pleasures and going upstairs to bed
alone. We had started to sleep together as soon as I moved in; it just seemed to be the
natural thing to do. I didn't tell him I was under age - why complicate things? I enjoyed
the closeness, it felt almost like love, though a quiet voice told me I was fooling myself.
"Goodnight everyone," I called as I left.
Gary's voice, raised above the mutter of farewells from the customers, shouted his usual
slurred, empty promise: "I'll be up soon to satisfy your needs, baby!" He turned to his
cronies, always the same heavy drinkers; "She's insatiable you know, can't get enough of
me."
I sighed. "In your dreams, buster," I muttered as I closed the door and climbed the
narrow, bare stairs.
At first there had been sex, initially careful and slow, but soon reduced to a quick
release for him, leaving me unsatisfied and angry. After a short while, even that ceased, as
he came to bed later and later, stinking of beer and breathing cigarette smoke into my
face. Occasionally, he tried a drunken fumble, but never managed to raise an erection; I
learnt to let him try, knowing he would inevitably fall asleep without achieving anything.
The flat was sparse, we never made enough money to furnish it properly, and Gary
drank most of the profits. I made myself a pot of tea and carried it into the living room, a
nice large, light room that looked out onto the corner of Nelson Road and Wellington
Road. Sinking into the worn settee, I poured my first cup, then rolled a joint and leaned
back into the lumpy upholstery. Gary had introduced me to cannabis - everybody was
smoking it, he told me. I took to it quickly, it helped to relax me and make life seem a
little bit less dreary.
I wondered again why I was still there. It was not the life I wanted; my career was
stalled, Gary had not lived up to his extravagant promises to catapult me into stardom,
and now seemed content to let me work as a barmaid while he drank himself into
oblivion.